A Simple Mission
by JenF
Summary: It was a simple mission – take the Queen's personal commiserations to the Comtesse de la Roche on the death of her husband and return with the balance of an outstanding loan as commanded by the King himself. Prequel of sorts to Avoiding Love but it's not necessary to read that story (unless you want to)


**Title**: A Simple Mission  
><strong>Author<strong>: JenF  
><strong>Chapters<strong>: 1 of 1  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.  
><strong>AN:** This is the mission from which Aramis has just returned in _Avoiding Love_. You don't need to have read that though.

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><p>It was a simple mission – take the Queen's personal commiserations to the Comtesse de la Roche on the death of her husband and return with the balance of an outstanding loan as commanded by the King himself.<p>

Aramis still can't quite believe how quickly it's all gone to hell in a handcart. The Comtesse had been the very picture of stricken grief, her husband still foremost in her thoughts. She had handed over the monies in what had, to Aramis, appeared to be a haze of sorrow tinged with a flash of bitterness. Aramis couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her. To lose a husband was one thing, to be deprived of wealth and comfort, something altogether different.

Aramis and his fellow soldiers had departed the next morning under amicable circumstances. The sun was still low in the sky as they bid their farewells and headed into the woods surrounding the Comtesse's estate.

The first hour's ride was pleasant. The Musketeers had felt no urgency and so had not pushed the horses to more than a gentle trot. The woods seemed peaceful and the risqué banter between soldiers was low key and harmless.

So when the first shot rings out, when Flaubert topples wordlessly from his steed, all Aramis feels is surprise. Then, years of experience and instinct kick in. Someone, somewhere – he thinks it might be Jean-Pierre – yells "Ambush!" and suddenly Aramis thinks Satan himself has turned his attention to this former wooded paradise.

He has no time to think; he can act only on instinct, relying on training and experience. As he pulls his pistol from his side, target already in sight, a small whisper takes up residence in the corner of his mind. _Savoy_, it says, _Savoy, Savoy, Savoy_.

Aramis ignores it. There will be time enough for that later. In Savoy there was no hope. Here and now there are warm, living Musketeers who are depending on each other, trusting each other with their lives while defending their comrades and he cannot – _will not_ – let them down.

He fires his pistol, simultaneously dismounting from his steed with a natural grace and elegance that seems out of place in the midst of battle. The kick back from the shot jars his arm but he hardly notices it. He drops the gun, resolving to reclaim it after the battle is won.

Men are swarming out of the trees, surrounding the King's men. Shots are fired indiscriminately and as Aramis joins the fray he feels the air by his ear fizz as a bullet passes by, missing him by only a fraction on its way to its final destination, buried in Molliere's chest. The man drops like a stone, lifeless eyes staring up at the sky.

Aramis will mourn Molliere later. He will pray for Molliere and Flaubert and Jean-Pierrre and all his fallen comrades when they return to Paris. He sends a silent plea for forgiveness to God as his sword finds its way, steady and true, through a sea of flesh. He doesn't know whose arm he has just sliced, whose thigh is bleeding profusely due to him, whose life he has just ended. There will be time enough for regrets later.

The fight lasts longer than Aramis had expected and by the time the last bandit has fled or fallen dead to the ground, there are only eight Musketeers left standing. There will be no rejoicing in victory tonight. The King's money is safe but there has been a cost paid far higher in value.

Aramis stands, drained and aching, and surveys the scene around him, lips moving in silent prayer for the fallen, both the dead and the injured. He prays for his fellow Musketeers and for those who met their end at their hands. He takes no pleasure in killing these men. He's a soldier, doing his job, completing his mission.

A sob from behind him breaks his reveries. He turns a weary head to see who is there. He looks into the empty eyes of a young Musketeer, a new recruit no doubt once full of dreams of honour and glory. There is neither to be found here today.

The sound jolts him out of his stupor. There are still living men here, looking to him for leadership. He is, he realises with a start, the most experienced man still standing. It's only natural for the others to rely on him now for guidance.

"Make a list of our dead," he orders, somberly. "There are families who deserve to know what happened to their loved ones."

Then they will bury their dead and return to Paris. There will be no celebrating tonight.


End file.
